Para Bellum
by woodbyne
Summary: More in the Mage!Matt Demon!Al universe. Inspired by 91RedRoses review to GreyMonth's fic;Tripping Red. Being in such proximity to war and wrath drives Matthew steadily into the deep end. Si Vi Pacem; Para Bellum. He who seeks peace should prepare for war.


**If you've never heard These New Puritans' We Want War; now would be a good time to listen to it. For GreyMoth – honey, when you requested this universe, you unleashed a monster. **

**Fic Nine on the poll that's on the author page! Go vote for your favourite plot now!**

Wind whips at the mage's hair, blowing it back from his face. It blasts at the grass, making it ripple like an apple-green ocean at Matthew's feet. Sparks and debris catch and dance in his billowing robes.

He snaps his fingers and another chain of explosions bursts into bright, colourful life across the enemies' slowly deteriorating shield. He's always been quite proud of his explosions and the colours they produce. Magic is a volatile element, and its colour and appearance vary from person to person. He's always thought that his look like the Aurora Borealis.

A full minute after the explosions, the shock waves reach the mage where he stands, far detached from the fighting. The warm air caresses his face, like a slap that had to fight its way through water to get to his cheek. It's beautiful. Matthew can't help but think that as he watches the enemy turn on each other, spells and bayonets and rifles pointing at friend and foe alike. Ira. Wrath. War. The Red Horseman. That man, the one who is demon and lover and all of the above is galloping his way across the frontlines. At first, the Canadian had tried to keep him away from the main brawl, but that have proved impossible. No. All Alfred wanted was to be down there in the fray; it was where he belonged.

And this was where Matthew belonged; he couldn't deny that now. He had tried to stay away from battles, but the thrill of victory was too much. The booming of explosions, the screams of his opponents. This was where he was meant to be. War had sucked him in and stolen his soul as surely as Alfred had. It was easy as anything, simple as breathing, to just fall headlong into this cesspool of debauchery.

And it felt so _good_.

Horns were sounding, long and low. They resonated, thrummed through Matthew's body and he couldn't help but shiver in delight. The signal for another attack.

The incantation was something Matthew could say in his sleep, and probably did, sometimes. But that was okay, it wasn't as if anyone had died yet, and so what if they did. Another snap of his fingers and more gorgeous explosions burst into life like exotic flowers. So beautiful. The stench of burning reached his nose; human and animal. He could hear the pig iron of tanks buckling under the heat of his flames. The tart fragrance of gunpowder and the rattling ta-ta-ta-ta of gunfire seemed childishly far away. But sweet. Louder than the guns and the groaning of the dying was Alfred.

Alfred's whooping, cannon-fire laugh echoes around the valley as he gallops about. He's ridden many things today, a motorbike and Matthew being two of them, but the thing he seems to enjoy most was a bay charger, whose hooves kicked up sparks where they struck the solid metal helmets of the soldiers before him. The horse didn't have a name, Matthew had asked. It just flickered in and out of existence when it's master wanted it to.

More explosions.

The smile on Matthew's face is beginning to make his face ache as from somewhere far behind him, a drum begins to sound. Dum. Da-Dum. Dum. Da-Dum. Their troops are rallying to make a final attack on the enemy. Might as well make this one count, because then he was going to be shoved back into his bx and not allowed to come out and play until the next border skirmish. Please let there be a border skirmish soon. Or another war. But a skirmish at the very least. It was such a relief to be able to vent; to let loose, to see his beautiful, destructive explosions cracking shields, setting people aflame, sending the soldier's flying only to land and not get up again. It was beautiful. So very beautiful.

His superiors were worried. Of course they were. He was becoming more powerful by the day, with Alfred's help. It was a simple thing now, to tap into the energies of Hell to supplement his own raw abilities. And that made him a wonderful ally, and a dangerous enemy. And a loose cannon.

And there was Alfred; he watched with pride as War cut swathe after swathe through the dwindling enemy lines until there were only a few who ran back to the safety of their own borders. But they were easy enough to stop with a few well-placed blooms of fire. And then it was just a matter of watching Alfred race out and cut down the stragglers. He could almost hear them scream, and that would have to be good enough.

Just because he could and because he hadn't yet been ordered to cease fire, Matthew threw a few last, devastating bombs at the war machines of his opponents, watching them crumble and shriek to their doom. Whoops. He was going to be getting it for that later. But that was okay, because Alfred was at his side; a good dog returning to his master's side.

_You're so clever, Mattie. Look at what you've done. Beautiful_. Alfred is always proud of Matthew's efforts. Kisses his neck, tasting and sensing and Matthew tips his head back with a groan because he wants to fight now. He wants to fight and fuck and he doesn't care who wins because the thrill of it will be so very good.

Voices. Voices are calling but forget them because there's a hand raking down his chest and all he can see is a blinding, Cheshire smile and a pair of radiation-blue eyes. Voices can go fuck themselves because he's just been punched in the gut and he's falling and laughing and he doesn't know where and he's lashing out with his fists and his fire. He can smell burning and he can hear laughter and screaming that isn't his. Thrust and jab, cut. Sick, splattering sounds like someone being disembowelled fills the Canadian's ears and the thick, cloying, pervasive scent of battlefields clogs his nose death and gunpowder rotting cooking meat and bile the stench of filth and the sickness of humanity wraps around the two of them and it is perfectly delicious. Better than anything Matthew has ever experience, naked and filth in the middle of his battlefield, clawing at the baked mud as Alfred thrusts mercilessly inside him. War surrounds him. War is inside him. Matthew laughs. He laughs and pants and moans because this is too good and Alfred's face is wreathed in the sharpest and pointiest of his dagger-sharp smiles. Matthew loves it, he tells him so. Alfred laughs. Alfred loves his little master. The one who would control him.

Matthew's eyes roll, his teeth snap, muscles tense and spasm as his fingers claw Alfred's back, carving ribbons into his skin, drawing blood and howling his need to fight to the smoky sky.

"You're _mine_, Matthew," Alfred grunts as he buries his release in the delirious Canadian, "I told you you'd be mine."


End file.
